


intoxicants

by Pseudologia



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudologia/pseuds/Pseudologia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Victor once again marveled at how, despite the physical brutalities of which Ethan was so obviously capable, he seemed to find the man—thoughts of him, the feeling of his touch—to be intoxicatingly comforting. Victor rarely allowed anybody to touch him at all. He puzzled over his obvious inclination towards the man, searching for an explanation that resided within the realm of science or logic.</i>
</p>
<p><i>After a moment, Victor realized that the answer he sought actually lay within poetry, and he thought,</i> Oh.</p>
<p>Or: Ethan can teach Victor more than just how to shoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	intoxicants

**Author's Note:**

> Victor has contamination-driven obsessive-compulsive disorder, and his mental process drives much of this work. If that could potentially trigger you, please be kind to yourself!
> 
> In other news, I am apparently the patron saint of writing fic for unpopular pairings. Love it. Why do I love Victor Frankenstein so much? Why is this a world in which I exist? Damn you, John Logan.

It’d been some time since one of Vanessa’s episodes, so the group agreed to adjourn to their rooms for the evening. It was a rather charged day on the whole, and Victor had been itching for another hit all afternoon, so he was more than content to settle into one of Malcom’s bland guest rooms and roll out his supplies onto the desk. The sting of the needle grounded him, and the rush of the morphine slowly eroded the anxiety and adrenaline that had been churning away in his chest. It wasn’t a bad day, all things considered: Vanessa was still yet to break any bones (hers or theirs), and it had been incredibly kind of Mr. Chandler to oblige him in the day’s shooting lesson. Victor remembered, distantly, how solidly safe the gun had felt in his hands, how satisfying it had been to hear the shattering bottle. He could recall—and, as he did, the corner of his mouth quirked up involuntarily—how innocently happy Ethan had looked on his behalf.

This past stream of days had been some kind of strange amalgamation of nightmare and dream. The voice in the back of Victor’s head that told him what was unclean was louder than ever, and he’d practically picked the skin around his nails bloody in his attempts to remove the dirt there. Being around Vanessa made him both sad and anxious: sad because, despite their short acquaintance, she did seem to be a genuinely kind and sympathetic soul; and anxious because her sickness involved all kinds of disgusting symptoms that made him want to scour his hands until the skin peeled off. Victor had wanted to be a doctor his entire life, but he made a living practicing on the dead for a reason—they rarely spit in his face or vomited blood onto his chest.

He largely attributed the dreamlike parts of the experience to his male housemates, though there were those rare times when Vanessa spoke to him, kind and weak, and he could sense her desperate gentility. The conversations he’d had with Sembene, Malcom, and Ethan had ranged from curt and harsh to mellifluous and deep, and he’d actually found himself begin to treasure the opportunity to know each of the men better. While, just a few weeks ago, he might have rather been confined to a room with Caliban than the haughty Mr. Chandler, he found that he was rather growing to like and trust the man. Ethan could be harsh when he felt defensive, but at heart it appeared he was a rather selfless and devoted person, if his loyalty to Miss Ives was any indication. He’d almost seemed eager to help Victor shoot today, something for which Victor was endlessly grateful, and—dare he say—the experience had actually ended up being rather fun. It was a welcome change to see the worry creases on Ethan’s face dissolve into laughter lines. Victor had actually felt safe and comfortable during their short lesson in the basement, which was a rather bold statement to make about any occasion in which one spends time alone with another person and a gun.

Victor leaned back into his desk chair, relishing the way the morphine fuzzed out his senses like cotton. He wondered, vaguely, at why his thoughts seemed intent on cycling back to Mr. Chandler—it was rare for him to focus on little else besides death, the drugs, and cleanliness. He decided he found this train of thought more intriguing than worrisome and felt content to close his eyes.

He woke up an hour or so later, slumped over in the stiff wooden chair. His skin was clammy with sweat and he felt feverish and itchy, as though a virus was noticeably skittering along his veins. He cursed and wiped at his forehead with a rag from his pocket, annoyed that he’d once again made the mistake of taking a dose before trying to fall asleep. Waking up and feeling ill often triggered his obsessions and compulsions rather strongly, and the past few days made him feel weak and uneasy at the prospect of fighting off a panic attack. He did his best to distract himself, to convince himself that the discomfort and nausea he was experiencing were merely a result of the morphine, but muttering to himself did little good. He paced around the room, removed his vest, and attempted to sketch out some ideas on his notebook, but nothing could keep the cycling thoughts at bay for very long. He anxiously wrung his hands together, adamantly attempting to stop himself from running them through his dirty hair. His breaths felt shorter, the room felt smaller—he was extremely tempted to reach once again for the bag that held his morphine, but he feared what it might do to his heart. In lieu of any other salve, Victor lit a candle and decided to walk around the now pitch-dark house.

The stately Murray residence was a tad ornate for Victor’s taste. He preferred the quiet simplicity of little decoration, and he was easily overwhelmed by the absolute disorder demanded by the Victorian vogue. He also found the African relics that peppered the mansion’s walls to be rather in poor taste, once he considered how Malcom came into their possession, but he could still admit that their craftsmanship was interesting. Tonight, portraits and sconces shone out at him as he wandered the endless halls, and he found their glow to be oddly comforting. In fact, he relished the distraction.

As Victor turned the corner, about to head downstairs, he noticed a crack of light spilling out from underneath a nearby doorframe. Though he normally preferred to be alone with his thoughts, at times like this he feared what they might compel him to do and craved the disruption of another human voice. He slowly raised a hand to knock at the plain door, guiltily hoping that Sembene would not be behind it. Though Victor found the man to be outstandingly interesting, he still hadn’t proved to be much of a conversationalist.

To Victor’s relief, the answering voice behind the door was distinctly American. “Come in,” Ethan called, and Victor tentatively opened the door and stepped into the room.

The guest room Ethan had chosen was much like Victor’s—plainly adorned but still sporting the accoutrements of a desk, chair, armoire, and shaving stand. A rucksack had been tossed in the corner and the bedsheets were crumpled and shoved towards the bottom of the frame, but other than that the room seemed entirely untouched. Ethan sat in the desk chair, an open book in front of him. He wore the same clothes from earlier that day, although his coat and jacket were slung over the chair and his shoes were on the floor next to the desk. Victor noticed that Ethan had still not removed his holster, and he felt a brief twinge of—surprise? Concern?—to think that the man never felt comfortable leaving behind his gun, even while alone in a vast house.

Ethan turned away from the book as Victor entered the room, slinging an arm over the back of his chair and grinning as he identified his visitor. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t Miss Oakley herself.”

Victor placed his candle on the edge of the desk and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. He did his best to fight off a grimace. “I continue not to understand your reference, Mr. Chandler.”

Ethan was undeterred. “Yeah, well, we’ll work on it. What brings you by at this hour?”

Victor sighed, forgoing eye contact to glance distractedly at his own right hand. There was dirt underneath his middle fingernail, and he had to fight the impulse to use his other hand to get it out. He was not eager to engage in such revolting behavior, regardless of the casual environment. “Sleep is once again evading my desperate clutches,” he replied dryly instead. He tipped his head toward Ethan, raising his eyebrows. “I suppose you’re in a similar situation.”

Ethan smiled ruefully, scrubbing a hand over his face. Victor noted that he’d tied his hair back with a strip of leather, and the shorter bits hung nicely around his jaw and chin. “Your hypothesis is correct, as usual, Doctor,” he answered, leaning forward to shut the book on the desk. “Anything in particular on your mind?”

Victor shrugged one shoulder. “What are you reading?”

Ethan picked up the book and eyed the cover before setting it back down. “Dramatic novel by one of your British writers, a Charlotte Mary Yonge. Brona absolutely loves her, says she taught herself to read from her books.” Ethan smiled slightly, as though fondly recalling a memory. “I think she’s all right, myself, but I’d never tell that to her number one fan.” He looked back at Victor, cocking his head slightly to the side. “You ever read fiction, Doctor?”

Victor tipped his head in kind. “Poetry, mostly,” he responded thoughtfully, “Although I do enjoy the occasional novel.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned more heavily against the wall. “God, do I wish I’d had the good sense to bring one. These nights grow long to the point of endlessness.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows. “There’s an enormous library downstairs, if you hadn’t noticed. I doubt Malcom would even blink if you snagged something.”

Before Victor could properly tell Ethan that he secretly imagined the Murray library to be filled with endlessly boring historical nonfiction, he was struck by a sudden wave of dizziness. In an attempt to save himself from potentially vomiting into Ethan’s shoes, he lurched to prop himself up against the edge of the desk and the wall. He hadn’t even noticed the other man rising, but he felt the pressure of a broad hand close down on one of his shoulders and he unabashedly leaned into the touch. Ethan’s palm was warm and grounding, and after a moment Victor felt the nausea slowly start to ebb. He looked up and allowed Ethan’s face to swim into the forefront of his vision, taking in the worried crinkle between the other man’s eyes.

“You okay, Vic?” Ethan asked, and Victor was surprised to feel pleased at the addition of yet another name to his repertoire. Ethan’s eyes bore down on his with a kind of relentless concern that made Victor feel lightheaded in an entirely different way. Although he felt more stable, he didn’t pull away from Ethan’s hand.

“I believe so, forgive me,” he answered, swallowing and wiping at his forehead with his free arm. “I’ve just had a rather trying week, in terms of health.”

The worried expression remained. “Nothin’ to forgive. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ethan moved his hand from Victor’s shoulder. Although Victor expected the other man to remove it entirely, he was surprised to find that, instead, Ethan moved his palm down the slope of Victor’s shoulder and settled on squeezing his upper arm. Though it was certainly meant to be reassuring, Victor fought to repress a small shudder at the all-too-welcome warmth of the other man’s touch. He once again marveled at how, despite the physical brutalities of which Ethan was so obviously capable, he seemed to find the man—thoughts of him, the feeling of his touch—to be intoxicatingly comforting. Victor rarely allowed anybody to touch him at all. He puzzled over his obvious inclination towards the man, searching for an explanation that resided within the realm of science or logic.

After a moment, Victor realized that the answer he sought actually lay within poetry, and he thought, _Oh_.

Ethan was still staring at him, blatantly concerned, his hand resting on Victor’s arm. This time, when Victor looked back at him, the feeling was inescapable. He would later ponder, with amusement, if it was Ethan’s American origins that led him to believe that the force he sensed between them was pure and unadulterated electricity. He remembered, blearily, what Miss Ives—rather, the thing within her—had shouted at Ethan just the other day. He was suddenly fascinated at the thought that her accusations might be true.

Perhaps it was because it was the middle of the night, and perhaps it was because Victor was coming down hard from a morphine high, but he found himself throwing all propriety to the wind for the sake of experimentation. Although Ethan nearly towered over him, Victor managed to find purchase by gripping on to either one of the other man’s elbows before surging upward to press his lips to Ethan’s.

Victor knew less than nothing about the art of kissing, so the first attempt was more a peck than anything else. Still, he stood with his hands on Ethan’s arms and his breath just a little bit shaky as he stared into the other man’s eyes. Ethan looked rather surprised, but he was yet to recoil in disgust, which Victor chose to take as a rather favorable outcome. The static still sparked between them, but the silence was stretching out an uncomfortable length. Victor could feel his face grow hot. He opened his mouth to say something—an apology, an explanation—before closing it again.

Luckily, Victor soon found he needn’t say anything, as a kind of determined spark lit behind Ethan’s eyes and he felt the other man grip his arms in return. Before he could even close his eyes, Ethan brought his mouth down to meet Victor’s with a kind of gentle force that was as surprising as it was intoxicating. Victor was more than content to let the other, more experienced man, lead the way, and he found it surprisingly simple to push when Ethan pulled, and vice-versa. After a moment, they were able to establish a steady rhythm, and Victor began to allow himself to forgo any concerns regarding technique and instead relish the experience’s sensations.

Ethan’s mouth was hot and surprisingly soft against his own, a pleasant contrast to the scratch of his beard. Their lips fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and the overall sensation was rather enjoyable. Victor felt lighter, but this time the feeling was not dangerous or unwelcome. Instead, he felt as though he were floating or fizzing, like his veins were being filled with helium. He wondered silently if it was these feelings that made kissing such a popular, seemingly essential act. Although it all felt quite nice, he doubted the experience was irreplaceable.

As though he could hear Victor finish the thought, Ethan almost immediately set out to disprove it completely. The other man moved his hands from Victor’s arms to either side of his head, his calloused thumbs resting roughly against Victor’s pale cheek. The resulting effect was that Ethan’s body was much closer to Victor’s own, and although Victor was mildly distressed as to the kissing protocol for proper hand placement, he settled on placing his hands on the narrow slope of either of Ethan’s hips. As if in response, Ethan opened his lips against Victor’s, and, because Victor was more or less following the other man’s lead, he did the same.

When Ethan licked at Victor’s mouth and their tongues roughly touched, Victor suddenly understood why everyone was so mad about kissing. The feeling of Ethan’s open mouth against his was a high gone completely unexplored, the touch of his tongue was an incomparable pleasure. Victor chased the touch with all the ardor of a well-versed addict, his hands clenching in the fabric of Ethan’s shirt and the other man’s knees knocking into his thighs. To Victor’s credit, Ethan appeared equally undeterred, his hands now gently but fervently guiding Victor’s head in search for the perfect angle. Ethan sucked on the tip of his tongue and Victor breathed in sharply through his nose, pulling Ethan’s waist closer to him. Victor felt his back hit the wall, and he noticed, suddenly, that Ethan had slotted a leg between his own. To have the sudden presence of friction where he most desperately needed it bordered on total sensory overload, and Victor found himself unembarrassed to be pressing his hips determinedly into Ethan’s thigh. Apparently his body was guiding him well, because Ethan was doing the same, working the lower half of his body into a slow grind as the upper half continued fervently kissing Victor.

The absurd pleasure of it all was just beginning to verge on unbearable, the head-rush working to crowd out all of his thoughts completely. Victor realized, with surprising clarity, that the combined effect was like the administration of ten morphine doses at once. Just as suddenly, a cold wave of guilt and shame overcame him.

Victor broke away from the kiss and shoved at Ethan’s stomach. Ethan stumbled back a few steps, blinking as though coming away from a trance. His mouth was slack and red, shiny with Victor’s own saliva, and the sight was both arousing and disgusting in a way that Victor didn’t want to explore. The crinkle returned between Ethan’s eyebrows, and Victor felt a stab of pity, contemptuous of himself that he should have to infect another person with his confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, in an attempt at explanation. “I just, I don’t usually—”

“Kiss men?” Ethan finished for him, his stare suddenly guarded.

“Anyone!” Victor corrected quickly, gesturing helplessly. “I don’t kiss…anyone.”

Although the sentence was absolute gibberish, Ethan raised his eyebrows in understanding. He cleared his throat and tipped his head. “Coulda fooled me.”

Victor attempted to fight the heat rising in his cheeks at the outright flattery implicit in the remark. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, squinting his eyes closed in exasperation. Usually his thoughts flowed into words so easily, and tonight was a frustrating exception. “No, I mean,” he began with a sigh. “I’m sorry I did that.”

Ethan schooled his face into something deadpan and placid. “Oh.” The flatness of his voice made something tighten in Victor’s chest.

“I simply mean to say that I do not wish to impinge on your relationship with Miss Croft,” Victor explained, and it was only mostly a lie. He had no desire to explain to Ethan what the thought of contact with another person did to him, how it stirred his thoughts in dangerous and unpleasant ways. He tried to stave off visions of the sicknesses he’d seen festering on the corpses he cut into. It made him want to spit onto the carpet. It made him want to get at the dirt underneath his fingernails. These were thoughts that were Victor’s own burden. They did not belong on the shoulders of Ethan Chandler.

“You’re right,” Ethan replied dazedly, and it probably hurt a bit more than it should. Victor tried to focus on the truth: that he could not allow, did not deserve, this man’s affection. He had no right to invite another person into the pernicious and volatile space that was his mind. He had no other option but to leave.

“Good night, Mr. Chandler,” Victor said simply, before turning and exiting the room.

In his haste, Victor forgot his candle on Ethan’s desk. He bitterly groped his way through the hall and into his own chambers, pausing to hazard a longing glance at his needles and tourniquet before dropping onto the bed.

He stared at the ceiling above him and settled in for a long and restless night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Commentary is always and forever appreciated. xx


End file.
